You have been noticed
by 0positiv
Summary: Sherlock should be careful what cases he pokes at, he might be noticed by the kind of people that make other's disappear with their creative use of stationary. Second Chapter added: A desperate Rook has tea with the man who occasionally /is/ the British government.
1. You have been noticed

**A.N: Another Being Human/Sherlock crossover, but this is not a continuation of my other one. It's a separate storyline, set earlier then the other fic. Let's please ignore all the ways this does not fit in with the two canons and just have some fun ;) Nothing mine, not making money with this.**

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„Mr Holmes, we need to talk." The pale man sitting quite nonchalantly in his armchair did not look like one of Sherlock's usual clients. He was too well dressed (grey three-piece-suit, moderately expensive, well tailored, someone for whom appearances were important but who did not want to stand out in a crowd) and too self-assured (sitting quite relaxed in a strangers living room, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded in his lap, breathing evenly, not nervous or scared, not subconsciously prepared for fight or flight).

At first glance he looked like your typical office worker, maybe an accountant or a banker, though the later tended to dress better and the first worse. And none of those two would wear this particular shade of grey (Unremarkable, easily overlook, not very memorable, perfect for someone who wants to go unnoticed). The most striking thing about his visitor was his fair, nearly albinistic, colouring which strangely seemed to make him blend in with the grey of his suit even more then darker skin and hair would.

He was clearly not used to working with his hands (no calluses, no scars, no wounds, manicured nails), but even though he was quite lean he was surely stronger then he looked (Fighting strategy: hit him hard and fast, use advantage of greater height and body weight, immobilize him as fast as possible, make John call that excuse for a policeman called Lestrade).

The stranger suffered Sherlock's scrutiny with an air of slightly amused indifference that told the detective that the he had expected it. He knew exactly who Sherlock was and what he could do. He also seemed to be drawing his own conclusions from his surrounding, blue-grey eyes lazily drifting over the apartment, taking in the clutter and the décor, now and then lifting a colourless eyebrow nearly imperceptibly (does not approve of what Mrs Hudson calls "a terrible mess").

When the stranger's gaze returned to meet Sherlock's he spoke again: "You are to instantly cease your investigations into a certain homicide case that occurred last week. You have been asking questions about things that aren't your concern. Your investigations have been noticed, YOU have been noticed." When he opened his mouth again to start on a no doubt well rehearsed and often used speech Sherlock flapped his hand at him. "And if I don't do as you say you'll make sure I regret it, yes, yes, fast forward past the threats please, they are mundane and boring. So I take it you are the one who's been messing with this case? The one who's been falsifying and destroying evidence as well as silencing witnesses?"

A flicker of annoyance tightened the man's mouth for a second, wrinkled the skin around his eyes, made him clench his hands around each other a bit. He was clearly not used to people talking back, to someone interrupting him or calling him boring. Who ever he was, he was clearly high up in the hierarchy of his business, someone used to being obeyed without questions asked. So this was clearly important to him, if it wasn't he surely would have henchmen for this type of job.

The man in grey forced a fake smile onto his face, the tone of his voice switching from low-key menace to false cheer and civility: "Indeed, I have been…let's call it involved in taking care of this unfortunate and terrible business. You see, there are certain …aspects to this incident that aren't fit for the general public, and like it or not that includes you, Mr Holmes. Your brother assured me you could be reasoned with…"

At the mention of Mycroft Sherlock snorted and picked up the bow of his violin to tap it angrily against his hand in time with the waltz he had last played on the instrument, "Tales from the Vienna Woods".

"You work with my brother then? Is this another of his schemes he doesn't want me to know about? Like that plane full of corpses?" The pale man rearranged his legs, straightened his waistcoat. "I do not directly work with your brother, no, we are in different departments altogether, but I do know him and we now and then have tea together. He speaks highly of you, but with a certain air of…shall we say weariness? But he does agree with me that the knowledge you are digging for is too dangerous to be revealed. You do not want to open Pandora's Box, Mr Holmes. The horror you'd unleash on the world is quite beyond your imagination."

Sherlock let himself drop down into the other chair, facing his visitor, fiddling with the bow while he went through the facts of that particular case in his mind. (Victims Tom and Ida Kent from Maidstone in, ironically, Kent. On their anniversary trip. Found dead at the river bank by a homeless man at 1 am Monday morning. Both of them very unremarkable, very boring, very middle class. No connections to organized crime. Cause of death exsanguination caused by sever trauma to the neck with injuries to both the carotid artery and the jugular vein. Coroner's report classified wounds as dog attacks, most likely by an animal trained to kill, suspected assassination. victims killed elsewhere and dumped on the river bank.) But both the crime scene and the corpses had told Sherlock a different story (signs of a struggle, two perpetrators, definitely killed on site, unexplained lack of the expected amount of blood at the scene. Neck wounds in no way compatible with a dog attack, though clearly too ragged and uneven for a knife wound. Most likely random victims.). But no one seemed even remotely interested in being told that they were wrong, even Molly had shakily asked him to leave it be. Now it all made sense, the way they did not look him in the eyes, the nervousness, the walls he seemed to run into no matter which way he'd turned with his questions. They had all been scared, had all been hiding something. And now he knew who had scared them.

The man's voice disturbed the tense silence: "This world you know is just the mirror-like surface of a deep, dark lake, Mr Holmes, but now and then the things that move beneath cause ripples on the surface, maybe even break through for a second or two into the light of day. This incident was one of those ripples, a reminder that there are things hidden behind this illusion of peacefulness, terrible things with teeth and claws, the stuff of nightmares. But people do not want to know that these creatures exist, they want to look at the beautiful surface and feel safe. And that is for the best. I and people like me have protected humanity from this knowledge for a very long time. And I want you to understand that though we work to protect humanity we are not above using…drastic means for the greater good."

Facts suddenly clicked together in Sherlock's head like magnetic balls, forming a shape, showing him the very disturbing solution to this riddle. It was a solution he had never honestly considered, filing it away under superstition and the silly plots of gothic novels. But if you eliminate all other possibilities whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. Vampires, he tested the word in his mind, it felt uncomfortable, childish, but it was very clearly what they were talking about. And within seconds he also saw all the implications of humanity finding out about those predators hiding behind human faces. He saw in the stranger's expression that his eureka-moment must have been written clearly on his face, and he nodded, confirming the other man's suspicion. "I see your point", Sherlock said, slowly, carefully, "and I think you are right. Be assured, I have no need to investigate this case further since you just provided me with the last piece of this puzzle. I see the picture now and that is enough for me. It is about solving cases, problems, not about telling others about it. I will keep quiet."

The pale man's face relaxed into a more honest smile as he got up and closed his jacket. "I am glad we could reach an agreement, Mr Holmes. Give my regards to your brother and remind him that he still owes me a chess-rematch. And thank Mrs Hudson for the wonderful cup of tea." He walked to the door and there, in a very deliberate move, turned around again and added: "I trust that you will tell your associate Mr Watson nothing about this little chat? And of course about that particular crime investigation. Should I find anything about this on that rather droll blog of his I would be forced to take action…" He fiddled with the pen in his pocket for a second before he bade Sherlock farewell and soundlessly left 221b Baker Street.


	2. Beasts and Bureaucrats

**A.N.: **Second chapter, once again none of it is mine, it all belongs to the respective owners. Not making money with it. Also I may have mixed the book-Mycroft with the Sherlock-Mycroft a bit, apologies if you object to that. I hope you'll enjoy reading it anyway. :)

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"You were my last hope, but I do understand your predicament." Dominic stirred his tea, precisely three times, clock wise. "If there is nothing even _you_ can do to stop this then we are really doomed." Sighing heavily he took the cup into his hands, brought it to his lips, then put it back down without taking a sip, a slight tremor in his hands making the expensive china rattle. The noise seemed amplified by the solemn cigar-smoke-scented silence of the Diogenes Club. They were the only people in the Strangers' Room this afternoon.

Dominic clenched his hands in his lap to stop them from shaking, forcing himself to calm down. Mycroft moved a piece on the chess board between them, took a delicate sip of his own tea, hands as steady as a surgeon's.

"I see your point, Dominic, I really do. It is simply that such matters are out of my hands. I fear my influence on matters of state is highly exaggerated…"

"Nonsense! If anything it's highly understated!" His voice trembled with frustration and barely suppressed anger, the words seeming to echo in the empty room.

"Dominic, lower your voice. There will be no shouting here. It is not done in a respectable gentlemen's club."

Mycroft's steely eyes looked reproachful on his guest. He was not used to the younger man loosing his temper like this, and in rather a public place no less.

The Diogenes Club was well known for the eccentricity of its members. Whereas other such meeting places were dedicated to trading gossip and playing loud and sometimes boisterous games of cards the members of this particular club were of the quiet, shy or, in the words of those who looked upon them unfavourably, antisocial variety. In all rooms apart from the Strangers' Room speaking was absolutely and under any circumstances prohibited. The members would sit in their own little corners or alcoves smoking, reading or simply enjoying the peace and quiet. Some of them could be found here at any time of any day so that they seemed to grow in their seats like pale, fleshy potted plants. Mycroft himself having been a founding member used to spend a lot more time here before his duties became so time-consuming. He did not often receive guests in the club and was very anxious to not let this particular guest ruin his good name.

Ashamed of his outburst and duly chastised Dominic lowered his eyes to the table and mumbled an apology. The feeling of hopelessness like a stone in the pit of his stomach seemed to double in weight. And the meeting had started out so much more agreeable as well.

Since Alistair had proved to be the immoveable object to Dominic's unstoppable force and the resulting crash had brought MI5 agents into his home to rifle through his underwear drawer Dominic had in desperation set up a meeting with Mycroft.

Ever since he had become Permanent Secretary of the Department of Domestic Defence Rook had now and then had dealings with Mycroft Holmes. The two men soon slipped into a casual friendship even though they very rarely met in person. They played long and heated games of correspondence chess and Mycroft showed great interest in Dominic's work. If he had business in London Rook would always make time to try and have tea with the elder Holmes. They had talked away many a night slipping from casual gossip via matters of international and national politics and the world of the supernatural to more personal topics of family and their own lives. Yet in all this time Mycroft never let slip what exactly his position was and what his work consisted of. Dominic often thought that this must be what it felt like for others to be talking to him.

Knocking on the door to the Diogenes Club this afternoon Rook had had no hopes for a casual meeting and light-hearted conversation. The matter at hand was too important and the implications too dire for that. With fake obliviousness of these matters Mycroft had greeted him with a big smile in the Strangers' Room, shaking Dominic's hand warmly with both of his.

"It's good to see you. It feels like it's been years since you drank all my brandy in one night." The reminder brought a smile to Dominic's lips despite the weight on his shoulders.

"If I remember correctly, Mycroft, you helped greatly with that. You look well and I swear you've lost even more weight since I last saw you."

Straightening his jacket with an uncharacteristically flustered look Mycroft nodded his thanks. Ever since he had decided that he should lose some of the pounds that made him breath as heavily as a steam train whenever he had to climb some stairs the topic had been a difficult one for him. "I also have a good tailor. The right clothes can work wonders. Now, what has brought on this urgent meeting when you have never found the time to come to London just to visit me before?"

As their tea was brought in at that moment both men nearly simultaneously unbuttoned their suit jackets, sat down and waited until the tea was poured before they continued their conversation.

"I'm sure you can guess. Nothing happens in this country without your knowledge, or so it sometimes seems." Rook kept his eyes on the man opposite him, reading the truth of that statement in the fine movements of the muscles beneath the skin of his face.

"I heard you're out of a job, so to speak. I'm sorry, Dominic, but funds are short everywhere these days. Alistair may not be the most intelligent Home Secretary we ever had but he has capable advisors and their reasoning is sound as far as financial matters are concerned. It does not help that most of those who support his decision have little to no idea what work you and your men do." While he spoke Mycroft delicately set out the chess pieces on the board between them.

"I have tried everything I could think of to make Alistair understand how important, how essential, our work is. But he seems to think Special Branch can handle it just as well." Dominic laughed bitterly." Special Branch! They would not know a Type 3 if it ripped their throats out on a full moon. They are completely unprepared to deal with this. My department has all the necessary training, knowledge and equipment."

Mycroft listened to this rant with a sympathetic expression while at the same time opening the chess game by moving one of his white pawns forward. The board and the pieces were made of stained wood and clearly old but well cared for. They were Mycroft's own set, inherited from his grandfather.

"My hands are tied in this matter, Dominic. It is outside my influence. I could recommend they rethink their decision or at the least let you instruct and train Special Branch but it would fall on deaf ears." He looked up at the younger man. "And there will be no chess game if you don't make a move."

Rook forced his concentration away from the rather pleasant thought that involved Alistair, a cage and a Type 3 and turned his mind to the game before him. They played for a while in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

"So there really is nothing you could do, nothing at all? You do understand what will happen if the monsters become known to the public?" Dominic hated how desperate his voice sounded, how he was nearly begging. Again.

"I am aware of that, I assure you, but there is nothing I can do about this. I have fires of my own that I need to put out which also will cost a great deal of money. I can not meddle in another department's funding while I've only just managed to secure my own."

Defeat left a bitter taste in Rook's mouth as Mycroft took another of his chess pieces and he realized that he would be checkmate in about two moves and there was nothing he could do about it. The game was lost.

How chess does imitate life sometimes.


End file.
